But the tenderness of my lips and the grass in my hair this morning confirms what happened between us was real.
Real.
Instead of Valerian, I spot Eclipsa. She gives me a conspiratorial smile. As soon as we enter the first phase of the gauntlet, she’ll slip away to join the others inside the palace.
Boisterous shouts draw my focus to the Seelie stadium on the right. The lower Fae are positioned in the highest seats while the Evermore fill the coveted lower half of the stadium.
They wave banners and ribbons and sing the songs of their courts.
Rhaegar sits with Basil on the bottom row, marking Rhaegar as a powerful Evermore. But the empty seats around him also mark him as an outcast with his own court.
His head turns to stare at me, and I look away before our eyes can meet, my gaze falling on Mack. My best friend stands a few feet away, the emerald and gray uniform she wears bringing out her bronzed skin. She’s braided her hair, ribbons of chartreuse and charcoal weaving through the ensemble.
Her face leaves little doubt that she’s going to win this gauntlet or die trying. We’ve both quietly conceded to the fact that we each plan to win.
Yet I trust without a doubt that she’ll do whatever she can to help me succeed until the end—and vice versa.
Cheers explode into applause as a giant portal shimmers to life at the end of the meadow. My heartbeat roars in my ears.
I rub my clammy palms down the thighs of my tight ice-blue uniform they dressed me in, to match my Keeper’s court. Dark streaks of sweat stain the stretchy fabric, joining an ever-growing wet spot.
I crack my neck, ready to begin.
Along our waists they’ve tied a spelled leather sack. We’re allowed to conjure two mundane items from it for each phase of the gauntlet to help us, like clothing, food, approved class one and two weapons, or tools.
The Unseelie sigil is pinned just above my heart. Every Unseelie shadow in the meadow wears the same black diamond brooch, a snake consuming its own tail. But it’s not just for show. When pressed, the spelled head of the pin shows a magical map.
A murmur stirs the shadows as Hellebore strolls to the front of our group. He’s in his element. His honey-blond hair is artfully styled to fall on one side, revealing the other half of his skull. Someone hand-painted a spiderweb over the cropped side. Flowers are trapped inside the delicate web, a winter and a summer rose.
Really original, douchebag.
He exudes the energy of the Spring Court: vitality, beauty, life. But I know that just like the flowers here, spelled to stay fresh indefinitely, a hint of rot and death lurk just below his handsome facade.
His sky-blue eyes sweep over us, lingering on me for a too long moment. “Shadows, welcome to the Spring Court’s final gauntlet, a race famous around the world for its ability to cull the weak from the strong. There are forty of you and only twenty victory spots. If you want to pass this year, I suggest you are one of those twenty.” He smiles, making no effort to hide his stare as it locks on me. “Like always, those who fail will have their slave contracts put up for immediate auction right here.”
The stadiums thrum with excitement at the prospect, and I clench my jaw to hide my disgust.
“You will travel through the four seasonal courts by way of portals,” he continues. “If you pay attention, each portal has a clue regarding the season you’re about to enter and the obstacles you might face. Use that information to choose your two items from the pouch at your waist.”
To demonstrate, a servant holds up a leather pouch. Hellebore puts his hand inside. “Field rabbit.”
We all gasp, including me, as he pulls out his hand holding an adorable gray rabbit by the nape of its neck. The creature twitches its nose, oblivious to the monster holding it.
As the bunny goes hopping into the group, a tense hush falls over the meadow. We can all feel the speech coming to an end.
Which means the race is about to begin.
“If you’ve trained and studied to be the very best,” Hellebore continues, “you’ll pass. Otherwise, you’ll fail or die. Both are undesirable options, I can assure you.”
The prick smiles at that. Psycho. I can’t wait for Valerian and the others to expose him for the snake he is.
As if he can feel my burning hatred, he meets my glare with a smug look. “Make no mistake. This race will define every single one of your futures for the rest of your brief lives. Now run, little shadows. Run for your lives.”
Awed murmurs stir the morning air and quickly turn to shrieks. When I see why, I understand that Hellebore was being literal when he said run for your lives.
A swarm of huge blue butterflies the same color as Hellebore’s eyes descend on us from above.
“Caeruleum mortem!” Mack hisses as she shoves me into a sprint. “The blue death!”